


Collection

by kasarin



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Breeding, Consent Issues, Dehumanization, Dubious Consent, Fucked Up, Identity Issues, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Objectification, Past Relationship(s), Unethical Medicine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 18:31:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18267032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasarin/pseuds/kasarin
Summary: Agent Washington is tasked with acquiring a very specific sample from the Meta.(READ THE WARNINGS.)





	Collection

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains consent issues, manipulation, and objectification/dehumanization. It is not happy. Please read the warnings.

The Meta is chained to an exam table, naked.

Wash freezes in the doorway and stares. He should have expected this. The man in charge has been running tests on the Meta to see what makes it so nigh indestructible. Wash is here, walking into this cell, as part of one of those tests. He doesn't know why he's surprised.

Perhaps it's because _Maine_ never looked small.

No; small isn't the right word. There's nothing _small_ about the creature stretched out across cold metal without so much as a towel for modesty. But Agent Maine was bulky with muscle; thick around the middle where his strong core protected his spine. Maine looked like a man who could flip a Warthog even without the aid of his armor. Like a man who could pick someone up and hold them for hours as they made love, never quivering from the strain or needing a wall for support.

The creature staring at Wash from the table looks sickly in comparison. Like it's been running on empty for years. Its frame is still large, but its musculature has withered, and every scrap of body fat has long since been eaten away. Where Maine was made stronger by his armor, the Meta evidently needs its armor just to be strong.

A push between his armored shoulder blades propels Wash forward. The butt of a rifle, he'd wager. He refuses to give the guards the satisfaction of seeing him react. Instead, he walks stiffly into the room. The Meta's eyes follow him, so emotionless that they barely look like human eyes at all. Grateful for his visor, Wash refuses to react to its stare, either.

Some (probably insane) part of Wash wishes that the Meta had its helmet on, too. Maybe that would make this easier.

Wash stops several feet from the exam table. Waits for the door to close. Listens until he hears the telltale click of a lock. He knew it was coming. The guards won't let him out of here until he gets what their boss wants. And if he doesn't succeed, he can kiss any hope of freedom goodbye.

He remembers the words of the man in charge: _"I've read the files concerning your relationship with one Agent Maine. Quite the interesting tale. I believe that you may be uniquely qualified to provide a solution to a certain … difficulty."_

He has to do this. There's no other option.

The Meta is still staring. Wash swallows. Steels himself. Speaks.

"Do you know why I'm here, Meta?"

The creature blinks. Shakes its head.

"I'm here because you're my ticket out of this place."

The Meta's face remains blank. It doesn't care.

"Help me out, and I'll make sure that you come with me. Don't help, and you'll never set foot outside these walls again."

Dark brows draw together. It doesn't like that thought. Wash knew it wouldn't. He waits, and then the Meta tilts its head curiously. Asks without words, _"Help how?"_ And it's so fucking _easy_ to read, it feels like he might puke.

Wash grits his teeth. Soldiers on.

"The man in charge wants your DNA. Your _reproductive_ DNA," he adds, so that there's no confusion — and because the Meta is already tensing, and Wash knows it's at the prospect of needles. "I'm here to…"

He falters. Curses himself and tries again.

"… To collect it."

The Meta stares. Wash lifts his chin and stubbornly keeps his body still. He doesn't know how well the Meta can read him through his armor. Doesn't know if it inherited that skill from Maine along with the dead Freelancer's body. In any case, Wash refuses to let his revulsion show. This is a necessary evil; he'll get it done, and he'll get the fuck out.

He keeps his breathing steady as the Meta keeps staring. Starts to wonder if maybe the creature doesn't understand what he's getting at. But then it nods, and Wash isn't sure if that's better or worse than arguing with it.

"Good," Wash forces out. Then he steps closer to the table. Closer to the emaciated body that used to belong to his best friend. Closer to the arms that used to hold him; the hips that used to grind against him; the lips that used to brush his ear as Maine groaned, voice deep and rough and _his_.

The creature chained to the table growls. Wash stops and sends it a glare through his visor.

"No. I'm not undressing."

It hisses. Wash hates how easy it is to understand.

"I don't care, Meta. I'm not doing it."

Then the creature cocks an eyebrow and gives him a look that's so _Maine_ , it feels like someone's stabbed him in the chest. _"Yeah?"_ the look reads. _"Good luck."_

Wash closes his eyes and fights his nausea. Fights the urge to open his mouth as wide as he can and _scream_.

This is necessary. He has to do this.

"… Fine."

Wash turns his back, walks to the edge of the room, and begins taking off his armor. He may as well have stayed right beside the Meta, for all the privacy he gets. He can feel its eyes on him. Can feel its stare latching onto every sliver of exposed skin. Wash doesn't know if he should hurry up and get it over with, or if he should take his time to avoid being close to the Meta for as long as possible. In the end, he winds up stripping quickly and then lingering by his armor for no reason at all, straightening it unnecessarily just to delay the inevitable.

He has to do this. It's either play along or stay in prison forever.

Suck it up, Washington.

When Wash finally turns back to the Meta, naked save for his underwear, the creature's eyes aren't on his exposed body. They're on Wash's face. He tries to keep his expression neutral as he approaches. Tries … and, judging by the way the Meta won't stop _staring_ , probably fails.

Maine was always the talented one when it came to wiping his face of feelings. The big man could appear utterly stoic while bleeding out. Wash learned to read those broad shoulders first. Then came the set of his jaw and the tilt of his shaved head; the minute twitches of his lips and quirks of his eyebrows. Maine's dark eyes were the most challenging, but in the end, Wash could read them, too.

The Meta's eyes aren't like Maine's. It stares without emotion. Gives no indication that it likes or dislikes what it sees. It just … _stares_.

Wash wishes he could tell it to stop looking at him without sounding like a fucking child.

Biting back his disgust, Wash mechanically reaches out and — without preamble — takes the Meta's flaccid cock in hand. Tries not to think about the fact that it feels just like Maine's. Just as mechanically, he starts jerking the Meta off—

And the Meta growls again, this time in displeasure.

" _What_ ," Wash snaps, though it's not a question at all. He knows what the issue is; he just doesn't care. He's not touching this creature the way he touched Maine. He won't.

The Meta thinks otherwise. It tells Wash he's doing it wrong.

"I'm doing it fine."

It scoffs.

"Shut up. I don't want to hear it. Focus on what you need to be doing."

The Meta glares, but it remains silent. Wash resumes stroking.

... But nothing happens. Nothing but the Meta shifting its gaze to stare at the ceiling in apparent boredom. Its dick remains stubbornly limp. Wash bites the inside of his lip to keep from shouting his frustration. This is the "difficulty" the man in charge was talking about. This is why they haven't been able to get a viable sperm sample out of the Meta: it won't even get hard.

Finally, Wash stops his movements. The Meta shifts its hips, almost like it's trying to get comfortable. Like it can even _feel_ discomfort.

"All right. What do you suggest?"

The Meta looks Wash in the eye. Then it shifts its chained hands and deliberately pats the surface of the table. _"Up here,"_ it says. _"On me."_

Wash closes his eyes and counts backward from ten. When he opens them, the Meta is still looking at him. Still asking him to climb on top in some twisted mockery of what he and Maine used to have.

He thinks of his freedom, and he grits his teeth.

"Fine."

The Meta remains still as Wash climbs on top of it. There's room on the exam table; it's built to accommodate the Meta's frame, and there's space for Wash to kneel on top without his legs dangling off the edges. Stiffly, Wash lowers himself. Feels the shape of the Meta's dick against his ass, and he's acutely aware of how thin his prison-issued underwear is.

The creature inhales. Wash watches its shrunken abdomen twitch as a shiver runs through it. The Meta isn't Maine; it will _never_ be Maine. But its physical reaction is identical, and Wash feels his hatred for the _thing_ in his dead friend's body grow.

"Come on," Wash orders. And — feeling his self-loathing grow in turn — Wash jerkily shifts his hips. Grinds his ass down against the familiar shape of the cock beneath him. Pantomimes the movements that never failed to arouse the massive Freelancer years and years ago.

It works. Wash feels the Meta's cock begin to swell against him. Feels its hips twitch up in the shadow of a thrust — the most that the Meta can do while it's bound so tightly to the table. Its fingertips brush his legs, as though it's trying to hold onto Wash's thighs the way that Maine used to.

"Stop it."

The Meta grunts. If Wash didn't know better, the creature might sound confused.

"Don't touch me. Keep your hands on the table."

The face that used to belong to Maine presses its lips together. It growls out a word that only Wash would understand: _"Want."_

"It doesn't matter what you want, Meta. Keep your hands on the table."

The creature's eyebrows snap down. It growls again, irritated.

"I don't _care_."

And the Meta explodes like a wild animal beneath him.

Maine would've been able to break the chains, even if he would've hurt himself in the process. The Meta can only strain against them. With its teeth bared in a snarl, it twists and heaves under him. Throws itself against the bonds on its body; rips at the ones on its wrists and ankles so hard that the joints threaten to dislocate. Wash leaps off of the Meta and staggers back. Watches as it slams its ruined body against the exam table, mindless in its desperation to get free.

"Stop!" Wash finds himself shouting. "Meta, stop!"

An alarm goes off. The Meta fights harder.

At that moment, Wash sees exactly what's going to happen. Guards will enter. The Meta will be sedated. Wash will be dragged back to his own cell, probably without even his armor. His chance at freedom will be gone. He will be a prisoner for the rest of his life.

He can't let that happen. He has to act.

Against all his instincts, Wash moves forward. He keeps his voice quiet — soothing, even — as he calls out, "Meta. Meta, listen to me. Look at me."

The Meta doesn't stop fighting. But it rolls its eyes to look at Wash, and its irises look even darker against the surrounding white.

"You can touch me. All right? I'll let you touch me."

Its movements slow. It watches Wash with something that almost looks like wariness. Like _Wash_ is the one that can't be trusted.

"I'll let you touch me," Wash repeats, feeling sick. "Just calm down."

After a long moment, the Meta complies. It ceases its struggles and lays still, eyes locked on Wash's. A few seconds later, the alarm stops blaring.

As if Wash needed confirmation that they're being watched.

Biting his tongue to hold back his curses, Wash slowly approaches the Meta once again. It doesn't move. He climbs back on top of it. It lifts its chained hands as much as it can to press its fingertips against his legs. Wash doesn't protest. He settles down on top of the Meta's crotch and resumes the slow roll of his hips. Feels the Meta start to harden beneath him once again, as though its violent outburst never interrupted them.

That's one more thing that differentiates the Meta from Maine. Maine could never let go of his fury so quickly, and he had no interest in sex when he was angry. That's probably why Maine rarely slept with Wash after his injury. Probably why he preferred to sit quietly with his fingers brushing through Wash's hair, even when Wash complained that he wasn't a cat that needed petting.

Wash forcibly tears himself away from those thoughts. Another difference between the Meta and Maine is a good thing. He'll focus on that alone. Because it's _necessary_ to keep all those differences in mind when the creature beneath him is moving so much like Maine.

The Meta can't reach Wash's thighs; it can't hold on the way that Maine used to. But the shifting of its hips and the shallow thrusts up are the same. The way it wets its lips and lets them part is the same. The way it exhales a quiet note of pleasure when Wash grinds against its painfully familiar erection is the same. And, as yet another reason to hate himself, Wash's body reacts to that familiarity; he's getting hard, too, and the Meta _sees_ it.

He hates this. He hates the man in charge of this prison; he hates the creature wearing his friend's body; he hates himself. His dick doesn't care.

The Meta says something. Presses its fingertips against Wash's legs and hisses, _"More."_

For an instant, Wash hears it in a different voice. He hears it in a _voice_ , period. Gravelly and taciturn to a fault, but never unpleasant. Never cruel.

"More what?" Wash asks, and he curses the slight tremor in his words.

Without making another sound, the Meta makes its meaning clear. It brushes its fingertips against Wash's bare legs. Rakes those dead eyes down Wash's body, then returns its gaze to his face. It wants more skin.

"I'm not taking these off," Wash replies, and the tremor in his voice is gone. He may not be able to keep himself from getting an erection, but he's sure as hell not removing his underwear and exposing it.

The Meta grunts, disappointed. Tries to tug at Wash's legs with just its fingertips. Tries to draw him closer as it hisses something else.

"You want me to touch you?"

It nods.

Wash hesitates for a moment. Then he reaches behind himself to take the Meta's cock in hand—

But the Meta shakes its head. That's not what it wants. It tugs at Wash's legs and speaks again, a garbled mess of sound that would be incomprehensible to anyone but Wash. And Wash wishes that he didn't understand it, either.

The Meta doesn't want Wash to touch its dick. The Meta wants Wash to touch its arms and its chest. It wants Wash to run his hands over it the way he used to run his hands over Maine. Admiring. _Loving_.

Wash closes his eyes. This time, he doesn't open them. He can't watch himself do this. If that makes him a coward, so be it. He takes a breath, and he complies.

The Meta is too thin to be Maine. Wash can feel its ribs when he runs his palms up its sides. He can feel scars where there shouldn't be scars — some, he knows, were left by him. This creature may have Maine's frame, but the rest of it is all wrong. It doesn't feel like Maine.

… But it _sounds_ like Maine. The quiet grunts; the soft exhales; the hiss of pleasure when Wash rocks his hips just so. Maine was always quiet, even before he lost his voice. The Meta sounds just like Maine did on those rare occasions when he'd pull Sigma and press Wash beneath him.

Was he still Maine, then? When did he stop being Maine? When did this _thing_ take Maine's place?

The Meta speaks again. Wash throws what's left of his self-respect in the toilet, leans down, and gives the Meta what it wants.

It kisses like Maine. Just as intense. Just as demanding. Just as labored, fighting the nerve damage left behind by nine bullets in the neck. It kisses like … like Wash is the most important person in its world.

Sickened, Wash reaches back and grabs hold of the Meta's cock. Strokes quickly. Relentlessly. Feels the creature jerk and writhe beneath him, moaning its pleasure like it's a _person_. It curses. It begs. And when it growls his name—

_"Wash!"_

— Wash opens his eyes and all but flings himself off of it. Stumbles as he lands, then grabs the collection cup and turns back. He doesn't look at its face. He takes its cock in hand and strokes a few more times, twisting his grip in the way he knows Maine loved. And then the Meta comes, and Wash catches its ejaculate with a hollow feeling of victory.

That's it. That's all he needed. He's done.

Without looking at the creature, Wash secures the lid on the cup, then he moves back to his armor. Starts putting it on as swiftly as possible. He ignores his own erection — it'll go away on its own soon enough — and focuses solely on getting out of the cell as fast as possible.

The Meta makes a noise behind him. Wash doesn't answer.

Within a few minutes, Wash is fully armored once again. He picks up the sample cup and walks to the door, knocking rapidly to alert the guards. They open it just as the Meta makes another noise. Wash leaves the cell without looking back.

~*~

They watch Wash leave without understanding why it's happening. This isn't how it's supposed to happen. This isn't how they remember it. Wash stays. Wash curls up against them, and they brush their fingers through his hair. Wash complains about it, and they smile and kiss him instead. Wash looks at them — really _looks_ at them, like they're not fucked up or broken at all — and their chest feels so warm that there might as well be a miniature sun inside.

That's how this is supposed to go. That's how they remember it. This isn't… This is all wrong.

They squeeze their eyes shut and try to pull their fragmented thoughts together. They try to understand what's happening. Try to pull themselves out of the memories that loop over and over and over in their mind.

Wash smiles, and they feel so warm.

All of this is wrong.

Naked and alone in a cold cell, the Meta — what's left of Maine — peels back their lips and _screams_.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a short breeding kink fic, aaaaand I wound up with this. /fingerguns…! First time writing from Wash's POV! Comments and kudos are appreciated.


End file.
